Deck The Halls With Love: Lost Lords Of Pembrook Novella

by Heath Lorraine

  “Quite.”

  She allowed him to lead her from the room but she couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder. Lord Tristan had a speculative gleam in his eyes as he studied the mound of draperies. He had a reputation for being quite the rogue, and she hoped he couldn’t guess what had truly transpired here.

  From the master’s bedchamber upstairs, Chetwyn watched as the search party headed back toward the manor. For a few hours, he held in his arms every dream he’d ever dreamed, and once again he’d let her go.

  To have her, he would have to ruin her, and he loved her far too much for that. But neither could he bear the thought of her with Litton.

  “Thought I’d find you somewhere about.”

  He spun around at the sound of Lord Tristan’s voice.

  “Trying to protect the lady’s reputation?” Lord Tristan asked.

  Chetwyn sighed. “I seem to recall your doing a very similar thing for Anne.”

  “And it almost cost me a life of happiness.”

  “I could never be happy if Meredith suffered because of scandal.”

  Lord Tristan ambled over, leaned against the window casing, and looked out. “Suppose I could say that I found you in the tower.”

  Chetwyn shook his head. “Too close.”

  “The abbey ruins then. We shall have to wait here for an hour or so to make that believable.”

  With a nod, Chetwyn pressed his back to the wall and slid down to the floor. He glanced up as Tristan offered him a silver flask. He said nothing as he took it and drank deeply. Rum. It might warm the coldness that had settled in his chest when he’d watched Meredith walk away without looking back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  *

  Meredith awoke in a fog. She remembered the warm bath, the tray of food, and the bed covers slipped over her. She’d fought off sleep, wanting to wait until Chetwyn returned, but exhaustion had claimed her. Rolling onto her side, she stared at the burgundy draperies, thinking of others that she’d recently encountered. They were drawn aside, and through the windowpane she could see the darkness. She’d slept through the day. They’d missed the play. Tonight was the ball. She needed to get dressed and see how Chetwyn was. She knew Lord Tristan had stayed behind to continue searching for him. She wondered if he’d found him or if Chetwyn had made his own way here.

  Reaching over, she yanked on her bell pull to summon the maid who had been assigned to her. When the door opened, however, it was Lady Anne who walked through.

  “Oh, finally, you’re awake.”

  “Lord Chetwyn?”

  “Doing remarkably well. Tristan announced that he found him at the abbey ruins, although I shall eat my favorite bonnet if Tristan truly found him there and not at the castle.”

  Meredith felt the heat suffuse her face. While she didn’t know Lady Anne well, they shared a common interest: Chetwyn. Meredith felt as though she could trust her with anything involving him. “He didn’t want us to be found together.”

  “No, he wouldn’t have, now, would he?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know him well enough to know that he would give to you what he once gave to me.”

  With her brow furrowed, Meredith stared at her. “What was that?”

  “The gift of choice.”

  As Meredith descended the stairs, she could hear the orchestra playing a quadrille, the first dance of the night, according to the dance card that the duchess had given her. She much preferred the waltz. She considered going to the grand salon. Instead, she turned into the parlor and walked over to the small decorated tree that sat on a table near a window. Tiny boxes were gathered beneath the boughs. Meredith had little doubt that they contained treats that the duchess would pass out to her guests tomorrow upon their parting. She would return home to spend the holiday with her family, and a few days afterward she would be moving into the residence she would share with Litton. Where she would share his bed. Where he would touch her and kiss her and bring her pleasure, and she would do the same with him.

  And all the while she would think of Chetwyn, who could have stayed by her side this morning. Then she would be marrying him. In the years to come, would each have wondered if the person sitting across the table was the one they would have chosen—if given a choice?

  Only she had a choice. Chetwyn had ensured it by leaving.

  “Oh, there you are. I’d heard you were finally up and about.”

  Turning slightly, she smiled at Litton. “Yes, I had quite the lovely nap.”

  “Let’s go have our dance, shall we?”

  “How many?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “How many dances?”

  “Well, two, of course. The first and the last.”

  “And in between?”

  “You shall dance with others, and I shall play cards.”

  Four dances the night they met. She wondered how long it would be before he desired only one … and then none.

  She swallowed hard, considering if she really wanted to know the truth, but she had to put the niggling doubts to rest. “The night when we were discovered kissing in the garden, during Greystone’s ball—I heard my father and brothers coming.”

  He stared at her as though she’d lost her senses. “As did I.”

  “I tried to slip away, so we wouldn’t be caught. You held me tight and whispered that it would be all right.”

  He smiled. “And it did turn out all right, didn’t it?”

  “Would you have held me so tightly if I had no dowry?”

  He laughed. “Now you’re being silly. Let’s go join the merriment.”

  He took her arm, and she shook him off. “I’m serious, Litton. We had time not to get caught.”

  “I wanted to marry you,” he said impatiently. “Is that suddenly a crime?”

  “Not a crime, but not entirely right, either.” She thought of the kiss that Chetwyn had bestowed upon her in the billiards room. Then again when they were walking. At the castle. It was as though he couldn’t get enough of her, would never have enough of her. “Do you know that we have not kissed once since that night? Not once.”

  “I took liberties that night I should not have taken. I’ve been trying to spare you any further gossip.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So you did tell people about the kiss in the garden.”

  He shrugged. “Only as a precaution.”

  “Against what?”

  “Your father changing his mind and thinking that it didn’t matter, that our marriage was not in order.”

  She gave a light laugh. “Since he’s withdrawn the dowry, that’s not likely to happen, as he knows no one else will have me now.”

  He grabbed her arms, jerked her. “What are you talking about?”

  Not a lie, she told herself, but a small test. “My father has decided, based upon the recent worry I caused him, that I shall not come with a dowry.”

  Releasing her, he plowed his hands through his hair. “I won’t have it. We discussed the settlement. Granted, we haven’t signed the papers, but I was depending on that dowry to cover my gaming debts. I shall have a word—”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “I shan’t be marrying you, with or without the dowry.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Have you been testing me? You silly girl, I’ll tell everyone what happened in the garden. Your reputation will be ruined. No one will have you.”

  “I think you may be wrong on that score.” At least she hoped he was. But even if he wasn’t, as she walked from the room, she realized that she’d been spared making a grave mistake.

  “—twenty stitches per inch.”

  Chetwyn tried to look impressed with his present dance partner’s sewing skills, but the truth was that Lady Beatrix’s words merely collided together as they bombarded his ears and made no sense. He’d heard that Merry had recovered from her ordeal and would be coming to the ballroom before the night was done, so he was trying to distract himself. A part of him wi
shed desperately that he had stayed by her side at the castle. It would have ensured she became his wife.

  But he didn’t want her forced into something she might not want. He just didn’t know where he would find the strength to stay away from her once she married Litton. But stay away he would, because the last thing he wanted was her unhappiness.

  “Pardon me.”

  At the tap on his shoulder, he came to an abrupt halt and almost forgot to breathe. Merry stood there in a striking red velvet dress with white trim. She smiled at him, and this time his heart nearly forgot to beat. Then she turned her attention to Lady Beatrix.

  “Forgive me for interrupting, but a gentleman asked me to give this to you,” she said, holding out a slip of paper.

  “Oh.” Lady Beatrix took it, unfolded it, and read it. She blinked her eyes. “Who gave this to you?”

  “He asked me not to say. He wanted to remain a bit mysterious, I think. But I am given to understand that he is quite impressed with your sewing skills.”

  Lady Beatrix brightened. “Indeed. I knew some gentleman would eventually appreciate them.” She looked at Chetwyn. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I must see to this.”

  “By all means. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  Lady Beatrix gave a tiny squeal before hurrying from the room.

  Chetwyn studied Meredith. “What have you done, Merry?”

  “I wanted to dance with you.”

  “Well, then, allow me the honor.”

  Taking her in his arms, he swept her over the dance floor. “Who was the note from?”

  She smiled. “Me, of course. It said only, ‘Meet me in the library.’”

  “At least she’ll be warm.”

  Her smile grew. “And not alone. I saw Lord Wexford going in there on my way here.”

  He laughed. “Jolly good.”

  She blushed. “Who knows? Perhaps something will come of it.”

  Tightening his hold on her, he asked, “And what of us? Will anything come of us?”

  “I’m not quite sure. It depends on you, I suppose. You should know that within my pocket I have a slip of paper for every lady you intend to dance with tonight. I want all of your dances.”

  “You shall have them.”

  “You should also be aware that Father threatened to take away my dowry if I didn’t marry Litton. I suppose he knew I had reservations and thought to dispense with them. I don’t know if he’ll carry through on his threat.”

  “I’ve told you before that I don’t give a damn about your dowry.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t love Litton. I never did, but he seemed a pleasant enough sort, and he made me feel appreciated. I thought I would be content with him, but then I discovered something I wanted more. Just a few moments ago, I cried off with him. He plans to tell everyone about the tryst in the garden. I shall be ruined.”

  “Lovely chap. I shall introduce him to my fist later. But right this moment you do know that the best way to stop gossip is to give people something far more interesting to talk about.”

  She nodded. “I never stopped loving you.”

  His heart contracted, then expanded, and he thought it might burst through his chest. “That’s good, because I have loved you from the night we met, and I shall love you until the day I die.”

  “Then kiss me now.”

  And he did. He stopped dancing, folded his arms around her, and lowered his mouth to hers. He heard the slowing of feet, a few gasps, some chuckles, a clap or two. Yes, they would be the talk of high society. But he wasn’t quite done.

  Breaking off the kiss, he held her warm gaze for but a moment before going down on bended knee and taking her hand.

  All dancing halted. The music stopped.

  “Merry, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife, my marchioness, the mother of my children? Will you be my love for as long as I draw breath?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, as she pressed a trembling hand to her lips. “Oh, Chetwyn, yes, of course.”

  Taking from his pocket a ring with small emeralds that matched her eyes, he slipped it onto her finger. At her stunned expression, he couldn’t help but smile. “I told you, Merry, that first night that you were the reason I was here. Happy Christmas, my love.”

  Standing, he kissed her again as a rousing cheer went up from those who surrounded them. As her arms closed around his neck, he pulled her in against the curve of his body and held her tighter. It was going to be a very lovely Christmas for them both. The first of many.

  Read on for a thrilling peek at the final book in

  the Lost Lords of Pembrook trilogy,

  LORD OF WICKED INTENTIONS,

  by New York Times bestseller Lorraine Heath

  from Avon Books,

  May 2013

  An Excerpt from

  LORD OF WICKED INTENTIONS

  The invitation came because of a debt owed. Owed to him. All debts were owed to him, while he owed no man anything. Not his friendship, not his loyalty, not his kindness. And certainly not his hard-earned coin.

  But the Earl of Wortham, a man of little worth, Rafe Easton thought snidely, did owe him a good deal of coin, which was the reason that he was allowed into the earl’s magnificent library. He wondered briefly how long it would be before it was stripped of all the former owner’s prized possessions. The late earl had left his son with little, and what remained had been quickly gambled away in Rafe’s club.

  The man wanted his credit extended, and so for tonight he pretended a friendship with the Rakehell Club’s owner.

  Drinking fine Scotch that the earl could scarce afford, Rafe lounged insolently in a chair near the fireplace while the other lords mingled about, chuckled, chatted, and downed far too much liquor. They were a randy lot. He could sense their eagerness and anticipation hovering thickly about the room.

  The young earl had a sister, although he didn’t recognize her as such. No, more precisely, she was the late earl’s daughter, born on the wrong side of the blanket. But at his father’s deathbed, Wortham had given his word that he would see to her care, and that was what tonight’s gathering was about.

  Finding someone willing to see to her care.

  Wortham swore she was a virgin, and that knowledge had some of the lords salivating, while others had sent their excuses. Rafe didn’t give a whit one way or the other. He did not bother with mistresses. They tended to cling, to desire baubles, to lead a man down a merry path only to eventually grow weary of the bed in which they slept and seek another.

  He didn’t do anything that even reeked of permanence because anything that hinted at forever could be snatched away, could leave him, would leave him. Even his gaming establishment—he took no pride in it. It was simply a means to coins in his pockets. It could be taken away, and he could walk from it without looking back, without a measure of regret. He had nothing in his life that meant anything at all to him, that would cause him the least hurt if he should lose it. His emotions ran on a perfected, even keel, and he liked it that way. Every decision he made was based on cold calculations.

  He was here tonight to watch these lords make fools of themselves as they vied for the lady’s attention, to measure their weaknesses, and to discover means of exploiting them.

  He’d heard that his brothers had been invited. That was a waste of ink on paper. They were both married and so disgustingly devoted to their wives that he couldn’t see either of them straying, not even an inch. But then, what did he truly know about his siblings?

  They’d finally returned to England two years later than they’d promised, Tristan a few months earlier than Sebastian. Rafe’s man had been waiting and ensured they made their way to the gaming hell. Rafe had greeted their arrival with little more than a glass of whiskey. He’d provided them with rooms and food until they’d secured Sebastian’s place as duke. He’d seen little of them since.

  His choice. They invited him to join them for dinners, for sailing, for Christmas. He declined
. He didn’t need them cluttering his life. He liked things exactly as they were. He was his own man, responsible to no one beyond himself.

  From somewhere down a hallway, a clock began to chime the hour of nine. Conversations ceased. The lords stilled, their gazes riveted on the door. Sipping his Scotch, Rafe watched through half-lowered lids as the door opened. He caught sight of a purple hem and then—

  He nearly choked on the golden liquid, as he fought not to give any reaction at all.

  He suddenly had an acute understanding of why Adam was so quick to fall from grace when confronted with the temptation that was Eve. Wortham’s sister was the most exquisite creature Rafe had ever seen. Her hair, a shade that rivaled the sun in brilliance, was piled up to reveal a long, graceful neck that sloped down to alabaster shoulders that begged for a man’s lips to make their home there. She was neither short nor tall, but somewhere roughly in the middle. He wasn’t exactly certain where her head might land against his body. The curve of his shoulder perhaps. She was not particularly voluptuous, but she contained an elegance that drew the eye and spoke of still waters that could very well drown a man if he were of a mind to go exploring within their depths.

  Which he wasn’t. He was content to appreciate the surface. It told him all he needed—all he desired—to know.

  Glancing around, she appeared confused, her smile uncertain, until Wortham eventually crossed the room to stand beside her without looking, as though he was with her. Two people could hardly appear more different. Wortham stood stiff as a poker, while she was composed but emitted a softness. She would be the sort to touch, hold, and comfort. Rafe almost shuddered with the realization.

  “Gentlemen, Miss Evelyn Chambers.”

  She dipped elegantly into a flawless curtsy. “My lords.”

  He’d expected her voice to be sweet, to match her smile, but it was smoky, rich, the song of decadence and wickedness. He imagined that voice in a lower pitch, whispering of naughty pleasures, curling around his ear, traveling through his blood. He imagined deep, throaty laughter and sultry eyes, lost to heated passion.

  “Visit with the gentlemen,” Wortham ordered.